Legacy
by MagicMysticFantasy
Summary: A small black book, a recommendation from a druid, what could go wrong? Stiles learns there is more to his family history than he knew when he reads the journal of a young woman who lived several hundred years ago. Her experiences begin to strangely mimic his own, and his eyes are slowly opened to show a legacy thought to have died out decades ago. The Red Hoods have returned.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or its characters, only my individual ideas._

 _Note: Feel free to leave reviews, even if they're critical. They make my day when they're good, and show me how to improve when they're bad._

Chapter 1

Stiles skimmed his fingers over the books on Deaton's bookshelves. Many of them were old, dusty, and bound in leathers of various shades of brown and black. The titles were written in everything from Ancient Latin to Modern Chinese to Old Navajo. He could only read several of them, and he made a mental note to start learning more languages so that he could understand the tomes.

Behind him, Deaton crushed herbs using an old stone mortar and pestle. The quiet and repetitive grind that resulted from the motions was oddly soothing. The sharp smells of various dried plants tucked into jars and occasionally hanging from the ceiling permeated the air, made stronger by the various plants the vet/druid/emissary was crushing.

Stiles's attention returned to the books. From the few titles he could make out, the pages before him covered all sorts of supernatural topics. Apparently there was everything from werewolves to dragons to chimeras in the world. Who knew all this stuff really existed? He had to wonder briefly how they all stayed hidden so well, because had he not been thrown into all of it headfirst he would never have believed in their existence.

Reaching the end of the bookcase, Stiles had just taken a step to move on to the next one when his fingers caught on one of the spines. He stopped to see what had halted his progress. It wasn't hard to pick out. The book in question stuck out like a sore thumb. Compared to the decorated light brown shades of leather around it, the plain black journal didn't really fit in. Curious, Stiles pulled it from the shelf.

The side facing him was the same plain black leather as the spine, and though it showed fewer signs of wear, it looked old. Like, several hundred years old. He flipped it over in an attempt to find some sort of title or identifying mark, and froze.

On the other side was a capital 'R' written in calligraphy. It was a bright scarlet, and took up most of the cover's center. A thought drifting through Stiles's mind whispered morbidly that it looked like the color of blood. He soon forgot that when he noticed the next detail. Instead of a blank leather oval in the center of the R's loop, there was a wolf's pawprint.

It didn't look like a normal wolf print, either. Stiles had been 'running with the wolves' long enough to tell the difference between a were's tracks and an ordinary wolf's. The pawprint on the cover of the journal was exactly like the ones Alphas left behind when they were in wolf form.

A growing ache in Stiles's chest alerted him to the fact that he'd stopped breathing when he'd looked at the cover of the strange book. He sucked in a breath, but must have made more noise than he'd thought, because Deaton turned to look at him with concern.

"Stiles, are you alright?" he asked. Stiles's mouth opened and closed several times before he was able to rip his gaze away from the symbol on the cover to look at the vet. Even though he was no longer looking at it, the mark still pulsed behind his eyes, and he blinked hard several times in an attempt to clear his vision. The letter faded, but the outline was still etched wherever he looked. He swallowed heavily as he held up the journal.

"What is this?" Stiles repressed a wince at the resulting croak of his voice. He sounded like he'd been gargling with glass instead of water. It didn't escape Deaton's notice – he could tell by the look in his eyes – but the vet held off questioning him for the moment as he turned his attention to the book. A twinkle of interest entered his eyes as he returned his gaze to Stiles.

"Ah yes, that one. I was told that it was the journal of a human packmate – a packmate to werewolves that is. I haven't gotten around to reading it myself, but perhaps you might find it an interesting read, seeing as you have found yourself in a similar position. You are welcome to borrow it if you would like."

Stiles knew something was slightly off by the intrigued and mildly excited feeling he was getting off of the man. Despite the fact that an excited Deaton rather creeped him out, his attention was mostly on the winded feeling he still had, the R that he was still seeing, and the strange feeling that he _had_ to read this book – that the journal was meant for _him_.

"Thanks," he responded, vaguely aware that his voice was rather distant sounding. His eyes were already locked onto the journal again. "Hey Deaton, I just remembered that I have something I need to do, so I'm going to head home now. Thanks for the book. See you later."

He figured the vet responded, but he was already moving out of the room, his fingers locked around the journal. The entire drive back to his house, he drove one handed, the other latched onto the small black book. Every stopsign and stoplight he encountered reminded him of the R on the cover with its red coloring.

By the time Stiles was climbing the stairs to his room, it hadn't escaped his notice that he had already become obsessed with the thing in the short amount of time that he'd known it even existed. The fact rather alarmed him, but a single glance at the book brought a slight fog to his mind that eased his worry, and – _shouldn't that alarm him, too?_

He avoided looking at the book as best he could while contemplating whether or not he should hightail it to Deaton's and demand the thing be burned. Something in him was crying out at that idea, and wasn't that disturbing that he'd already become attached to the damn thing? Still, it was Deaton himself who had both recommended and given the book to him, so he supposed it should be relatively safe.

Stiles finally gave in and looked at the book again. It looked innocent enough. Then again, so did Scott until he wolfed out. Still. He bit his lip, then stood and crossed the room to where he'd tossed (okay, gently placed) it when he'd gotten home. It couldn't hurt to start reading it. If he began to feel like his fingers were falling off or like he should go and hunt someone down or hoard the thing like Gollum's precious, he would stop reading it and burn the book himself.

The moment he opened the cover, a tightness in his chest he hadn't even been aware of loosened, and he let out a breath of relief. The writing inside definitely looked as old as the cover did, and appeared to be written by hand with ink. The paper was yellowed with age, but smelled like the forest when the motion of opening he journal sent a waft of air towards Stiles. He stopped examining it when he realized he was stalling, and began reading.

 _Entry One_

 _I do not particularly want to write this at all, for if it is found and read by unfriendly eyes it will be the death of everyone I love. However, our Guide claims that it is a part of our shared history, and of my own legacy, so I should write this to ensure that our story shall not be lost and rubbed away by the sands of time. He is the one who has given me this journal to record everything in._

 _To further prevent possible death, I will not write in full names, instead using only titles or letters to stand in their places. As for myself, I choose to be remembered as V. Whether or not I will be remembered at all is still to be discovered, but if I am, this shall be my chosen identity._

 _To begin to tell our tale, I must first tell of how I came to be a part of it at all. I have often wondered what might have happened had I left home only moments later or earlier, or if I had not stopped in curiosity on my journey. I can only imagine that much would be different, and that I would not be her now, writing this. However, by whatever twist of fate, I_ _am_ _here and recording our shared stories._

 _My story begins in early spring. The snow had melted only a fortnight ago, but the trees and flowers had already begun to bloom. The winter had been harsh that year, and our village –_

The window slamming open had Stiles nearly falling off the bed, and snapping the book shut, flipping the cover over so that the large R on the cover was hidden. The reaction was instinctual, and he would probably analyze it later, but at the moment he was more concerned with who was coming into his bedroom through the window at nearly eleven at night.

A familiar form slid in, and Stiles breathed out a sigh of relief. It was just Scott. He should really think about getting a better lock on his window, and then actually using the lock he currently had as well as the one he was going to get tomorrow first thing after school. Scott looked up, and at least had the decency to look sheepish.

"Sorry. I keep forgetting that you don't have werewolf hearing." He caught sight of the journal in Stiles's hands and looked interested. "What's that? Is there a creature you're researching that I haven't heard about yet?" Stiles looked down at the unassuming black book.

"No, no, everything's fine. This is just something Deaton recommended I read, so I borrowed it from him. What's up?" He asked, pulling open the drawer to his nightstand, and placing the journal inside, attempting to bring his attention away from it and back to his friend. Scott brightened, already forgetting the book.

"Oh, right. Well, I realized that we haven't seen each other in the past couple of days, so I figured I'd spend the night here if you were free, and we could go hang out with the pack tomorrow for designated 'bonding time'. It was Erica's idea." Scott tacked on his last sentence at Stiles's raised eyebrows, and his friend laughed.

"Sure. I'm not really doing anything right now. You feel like playing a round, or are you afraid I'll beat you again?" He tossed a videogame controller at Scott, and laughed at the resulting scandalized expression on his face as he settled onto the floor. Scott sat down beside him as he gave his retort.

"Hey! I only lost that time because the pizza man arrived right when I needed to concentrate most." Stiles raised his eyebrows mockingly as he started up the game.

"Uh huh, sure. That's totally what it was." Their conversation dissolved into a playful back-and-forth banter they were both familiar with. They checked out for the next several hours playing game after game, until Stiles glanced at the clock and realized that it was half past one in the morning.

"Hey, dude. If we're planning to meet the pack tomorrow, we should probably hit the sack." Scott glanced at the clock and blinked in surprise before nodding. He stood to get the sleeping bag that had taken up permanent residence in Stiles's closet for occasions when they actually went to sleep of their own accord and didn't just pass out where they were and spread it out next to Stiles's bed.

Several minutes later, they were both in bed, lying in a comfortable silence broken only by the sound of their breathing. As usual, Scott fell asleep first, and Stiles listened to his even breathing. He suddenly remembered the book from earlier, and his gaze slid from the ceiling to his nightstand. Why did it affect him so much? Did it effect everyone that way, or was it just him? He'd have to ask Deaton at some point.

He could feel his eyelids getting heavier as his body began to shut down. Internally though, his mind was racing, attempting to piece together what little he knew of the journal, thinking about the pack 'bonding' happening tomorrow, and Deaton's mysterious look earlier. Most of all he thought about how glad he was that this was his life now, no matter how insane it was or how weird it got. He was so busy thinking about everything, that he didn't even realize that his last thought before he fell asleep was that he wanted to keep reading the journal.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When Stiles woke up the next morning, he was surprised to realize that he had woken up before Scott. A glance at the clock showed it to be eight in the morning. Stiles gaped. It had been ages since he woke up on his own before ten or so. Usually once he was asleep, he would keep sleeping for hours, catching up on all the sleep he lost by pulling late nights and all-nighters. As it was, he only got a little over six hours that night.

Despite that, he was surprisingly awake. He wasn't really sure why, but he wasn't planning on looking a gift horse in the mouth. He glanced at Scott, debating on waking him up, but decided that he'd let the werewolf sleep. After all, his friend wasn't as used to not sleeping as Stiles was. However, letting Scott sleep opened up a new problem to Stiles. He was going to be bored.

He couldn't use the computer, because with Scott's wolfy hearing, he'd wake up for sure at the sound of the keys. He also couldn't leave the room, because again, wolf hearing. Stiles bit his lip as he scanned around the room looking for something to occupy him. As his eyes drifted over his side table, he suddenly remembered the book, and sat upright. How had he already forgotten it? He was nearly obsessed with it yesterday after only half an hour of knowing it existed.

Now that he'd thought about it, Stiles couldn't come up with anything other than the journal to entertain himself with. Even his computer didn't sound as interesting anymore when he thought about the story someone from hundreds of years ago was telling. That was something even the internet couldn't offer as authentically as holding a book from several hundred years in the past.

Quietly and carefully, Stiles slid open the drawer holding the black journal. There it lay, as unassuming as ever. He picked up the book, not bothering to close the drawer again. It would make more unnecessary noise, and it didn't really matter at the moment. Stiles opened it back up to the page he had left off on, and found the paragraph he had been reading when Scott barged into his room last night.

 _My story begins in early spring. The snow had melted only a fortnight ago, but the trees and flowers had already begun to bloom. The winter had been harsh that year, and our village had lost several of our elderly and children. Most survived despite the cold and hunger, and were already beginning to work the fields for planting. Such is the cycle of life when there are families to feed and work to be done._

 _One unfortunate effect of the winter was an illness that settled deep in the chest. Guide claimed it came from liquid entering the lungs, making it difficult to breathe. I suppose he must have been correct in his diagnosis, for he is the town healer after all, and by then all but one of the ill had recovered with his help._

 _The one who had not was Grandmother. She is not truly my grandmother, but that is what she has been known as by everyone in the village for as long as I can remember. She is well liked by all, and the children simply love her. Everyone was concerned when she fell ill, and if we lost her, everyone would mourn her passing._

 _Guide told us all that she would need daily care from someone, and that she would need to be given a tonic every day until she was better. Everyone wanted to help, but nobody could do it. Despite their love for her, the planting season had arrived, and within days they would be in fields from daybreak until dusk. With nobody else able to help, the job fell to me._

 _Unlike many, I lived alone. My parents had been taken by fever only two years prior, and I had no siblings or other family. I was old enough to live alone at the time, even if just barely. By the time Grandmother needed caring for, I had only myself to care for. I lived by myself in my father's house, the one he had built for my mother. It was a beautiful house, though simple, and I could not bear to even think about leaving it despite Grandmother's condition. So I took the path through the woods to care for her every morning and evening, in spite of the amount of time that took out of my day._

 _The morning everything changed, and on which our tale truly begins, was made bright by sunshine and was full of color. The wind was crisp still, but it was nothing a thick cloak would not fix. The baker's son, J, had given me an additional loaf of bread the previous evening when I bought the first. He told me it was to repay me for the carrots I had given him the week before. I knew that the real reason was that we were close friends – nearly family, as we often joked about being cousins born into the wrong families._

 _Whichever version of events you believe, mine or J's, the fact of the matter was that I had an extra loaf of bread that I had decided to bring to Grandmother. It usually did not take me very long to prepare to go and visit her, nor did it that morning. However, those few extra moments I took to carefully wrap the bread in cloth and add it to my basket were just enough to change my fate._

 _I set out by early morning, wearing a simple dress and my shoes that were worn by use throughout the years. As a last minute decision, feeling the chill in the air, I had decided to wear the rose-red cloak Grandmother had made for me as a thank you gift. I had yet to wear it, and had decided in that moment that it would bring a smile to her face to see me use it. In truth, the gift was probably as much for her benefit as mine, for if I fell ill in the cold, she too would suffer as I was her caretaker._

 _The shortcut through the woods had become slightly obscured during the long winter months, but by the time several weeks went by, my daily visits would soon reestablish it. Grandmother often had many visitors as well, and the tramp of their feet would assist in marking the path again._

 _It was slightly dimmer under the trees, but the light coming from between the leaves provided more than enough light to see by as it dappled the ground. The woods are peaceful in the spring – especially in the morning. That morning, though, that peace only lasted half an hour, until I was fairly deep in the woods._

 _I had been listening for the birds, hoping to catch sight of some that might have already returned when I heard the sound. I was confused, because at first it sounded like raised voices, but when I listened closer, I thought I was hearing dogs fighting. The only dogs in town were Leader's. Leader's dogs were as important to him as his family, and they came from a prestigious lineage. If they were fighting, I had to try and break them up before they were injured too badly._

 _Following the sounds of snarling and growling, I came upon a clearing in which two writhing animals appeared to be fighting to the death. They were far bigger than I had anticipated, and from that alone I knew that they were not Leader's dogs. The only conclusion that I could come to was that the two animals were wolves._

The entry ended there, and Stiles stared at the page blankly. What on earth was he reading? It seemed like a twisted version of some fairytale or another. A young woman goes out into the woods alone carrying a basket and wearing a red cloak to go visit her 'grandmother' and comes across wolves? Really? Deaton had said that this was a factual account of a human packmate, not a warped version of Little Red Riding Hood. A sudden sound from Scott drew Stiles out of his thoughts, and he closed the book while making a mental note to go visit the vet soon to get clarification.

Scott opened his eyes, and several moments later sat up. He glanced over at Stiles and jumped when he noticed that his friend was already awake and watching him. Stiles let out a laugh at Scott's expression, and Scott glared at him despite the fact that he wasn't truly angry.

"Dude! Don't watch me like that, it's creepy. How long have you even been awake?" He glanced at the clock, then blinked at the time. Scott turned to Stiles with a rather concerned expression. "It's barely nine in the morning. Are you feeling alright? Please tell me you weren't up all night." Stiles shook his head in response.

"Relax, Scott. I was asleep soon after you were, I just woke up earlier than normal for whatever reason. I've only been up since a little after eight." Scott's anxiety drained away as he nodded, and he looked a little relieved. Stiles felt his lips twitch in amusement. His friend could be such a worrywart about some things, and then be completely fine about things that were truly life-threatening. Scott suddenly stiffened and turned to Stiles incredulously.

"Wait, have you been watching me for over an _hour_? Why didn't you wake me up?" Stiles grinned widely at the werewolf's indignation, and held up the black journal. He didn't realize that he had kept the scarlet R on his side of the cover until a moment later, but brushed it off as a coincidence.

"Even _I'm_ not that weird, dude, and that's saying something. I was reading the book Deaton gave me yesterday, remember? I didn't wake you up because it was still early, and you looked like you could use the sleep." Scott looked sheepish, and a little embarrassed, at jumping to the conclusion that Stiles had been watching him sleep.

"Sorry. Anyway, we should probably eat and then get going if we're going to be meeting with the pack at eleven." Stiles nodded, setting the book back in the drawer and closing it. The two boys then got up and made their way downstairs to eat some breakfast. Scott settled into his usual place at the counter easily, already well aware that he was banned from even making cereal in the Stilinski kitchen – especially after the incident with the spoiled milk getting spilled everywhere. Stiles had complained for weeks about the smell.

Stiles on the other hand got out several pans and ingredients from the cupboards around the kitchen. He felt his mind settle as he worked. Cooking was one of the only things that calmed his hyperactive mind. He had no idea why, but he wasn't exactly going to complain. Privately, he thought it probably had something to do with it being something he had done with his mom. It had been their thing, and she had been the one to teach him how to cook at all.

This morning he was making waffles, and by the way Scott perked up several minutes into the process, he knew it too. The next fifteen minutes were filled with a rare but comfortable silence between the two. Once the batter was made, it didn't take long for a huge pile of waffles to form on one of the plates Stiles had gotten out. He took five for himself, and left the rest for Scott, knowing that his wolfy metabolism meant his friend ate even more than he did.

Their silence ended once they began to eat, and before long they were in a heated debate about whether or not Wolverine was better than Quicksilver. Neither of them realized how long they had been discussing the topic until Stiles glanced at the time and cursed.

"Oh man, we're going to be late! Erica is going to kill us, and if Lydia is there we'll wish we were dead!" Needless to say, that realization got them both moving pretty quickly. They hurriedly got dressed, Scott throwing on the extra clothes he'd brought and Stiles throwing on whatever was closest. He grabbed his bag, and put a notebook and several pencils and pens in it. Scott was already downstairs by that point, waiting impatiently by the front door. Stiles hesitated, then grabbed V's journal from his bedside table and added it to his backpack.

"Stiles, hurry up!" Scott called up to him. Stiles rolled his eyes and closed the drawer before zipping up his bag and darting to the door. He clattered his way down the stairs, barely managing to keep from hitting the wall at the bottom as he flailed.

"Calm down, Mr. Impatient. I'm coming, I'm coming." He snagged his keys off the hook by the door, and dragged Scott through the door after him. "Now, how many traffic laws do you think I can break before my dad will be forced to give me a ticket?"


End file.
